


What Remains of Martha Behamfil

by Torchquicks



Category: What Remains of Edith Finch (Video Game), 第五人格 | Identity V (Video Game)
Genre: Alsksjsjalsldlsjskal, Also dont me indent things im lazy, And the ship present here is just heavily implied but like I also needed it for plot, As if I actually proofread anything lmaooo, BQ only appears for like one scene and the others are just implied and/or referenced, Gen, I just loved what remains of edith finch so much that I had to write whatever this is, If youre wondering then yes I purposefully didnt write the other charas named except for BQ, Im sorry of its cringey aksjdhakklllfjfshgsa, It was a niche choice idk I just felt like it idgaf if it compromises clarity, Not sure if its clear probs isnt but the hunter with the paintbrush is ripper, Oh and emily is just referenced once so I didnt bother tagging her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-23 03:16:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23538232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torchquicks/pseuds/Torchquicks
Summary: When Martha disappeared that night, she left a note addressed to a certain Mr. Subedar pinned to her door.-----"I know that this would not make any sense, and I'm sorry.But I think I know how to get out of this place."
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	What Remains of Martha Behamfil

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so lmaoooo alsldjsjksl quarantines been makin us crazy so my cousin n I decided to go on a steam binge and played thru random games and I was IN LOVE with what remains of edith finch. Earlier that day I think I was playing coor in idv idk maybe no. Idk I just love the way the game was written and so I decided to watch a full walkthru of the unfinished swan right after we finished the game. I am no way an expert writer so this might come off as pretentious?? Im still working on writing and finding a style, but im trying my guess ig. Im more of an artist than a writer im sorry. I also dont know how ao3 works.

\-----

I know that this would not make any sense, and I'm sorry. 

But I think I know how to get out of this place. 

This all started back with a casual match on Leo's Memory against Mary. Perhap you were there too? The details seem hazy these days, but there's still one thing that's crystal clear even until now: Mary's mirror image staring at a distance, distant and dazed. The factory's red lights danced with the moon's, illuminating her porcelain profile. She stood there, watching as if she was waiting for me to make a move. Her frosted finger beckoned me to come close, and like a jet flying on cruise control, I let my feet guide me across the snow. Any sane person with a magic flare gun at this point would've jumped ship and shot there and then, but I didn't. It felt right, like it was destined somehow. I kept going and going until I felt the tip of my boots touched the edge— or at least that's what it felt like —of her gown. And as if there wasn't a lack of personal space, she leaned in closer and touched my face, examining every pore and and crack she could find, perhaps? I digress. Mary was a delightful woman who knew beauty was more than skin-deep, and her mirror image would've been the same. I found myself getting more intrigued by the second. Whatever was happening at that moment, there was something deeper and more complex going on.

"You aren't happy, are you, My Dear?" The image said. 

I was stunned for an answer. Sure, the circumstances seem bleak for us, and whatever entity keeping us here doesn't seem to be planning an end to this game soon, but reliving the same gruesome matches with the same broken people who hunt you down and help you out makes you numb and calloused enough to forget you're trapped in this cycle of death and escape. Before I could even protest and pester for an explanation, she dismissed me with a wave of her hand. 

"There's a silver paintbrush hidden in the left most corner room of the hunter's wing. If you can find it, you will know what to do." 

— and then my memories stop right here. I tried forcing myself to remember once, but all I ended up with was a headache and a nagging Emily who wouldn't let me play for the rest of the day. Maybe it was a sign. If the manor had taught us anything, it was that some things were better left forgotten. It didn't matter, anyways— I knew enough to know what my next step was. There was only one hunter I knew who lived in the room at the end of the hunter's wing. Him.

That's where you came into the picture. Anyone from a mile away could see what was going on between you and him. If there was any chance of me getting to his room, it would have to be through you. ( Don't think I couldn't hear the squeak of the floorboards in the dead of the night whenever you sneak past our rooms to meet him in the first floor hallway. Sneaky little wolf. ) Do you remember the time when I had made you swap matches with me because I told you that he would be the next hunter? And when you agreed, I squeezed you so tight that you said you couldn't breathe? There was a reason for that. The moment you left for White Sand Street Asylum, I made a beeline for the farthest room in the left side of the hunter's wing. His room. You might have a suspicion of how I got the key, and you might be right. For someone who relied so much on stealth, it was a surprise that a missing set of keys from your back-pocket would slip past your radar. I know that I've said a thousand sorries to you that I never really meant, but I do mean it this time. You might not trust me anymore, or maybe you still do; but rest assured, you will not see me anymore, and I will be out of your hair soon enough.

His room was surprisingly— and relatively —well-kept and normal. Little knick-knacks were stored on dusty, wooden shelves, from porcelain gnomes to snow globes of minature versions of our match maps. ( Even your elbow pads were on the shelf. You sly dog. ) There was a study table in front of a window that overlooked the forest that encompassed the manor, and on it, was a cup filled with an assortment of pencils, markers, and paintbrushes. The silver paintbrush stood out from the rest, illuminated by the night. The flicker of the argentine handle's reflection pulled me in, tempting me to touch it like a cursed spinning wheel meant for a cursed princess. 

Mary's mirror image had told me that I would know what to do next after I had the brush, but I didn't. Nothing came into mind. Perhap some paper was needed? The drawers seemed stuck, and the cabinets were locked with a coded padlock; so paper was out of the options. Maybe if I wrote on my arm, something would happen? There was some paint bottles haphazardly stashed under his bed, but the paint was dried out and nearly empty. Nothing seemed to be working out, so I sat down on a plush arm chair to recollect my thoughts. 

Looking at the brush, I remembered my childhood. Mama had always wanted a golden daughter to show off to her peers— it was befitting for a lady of my birth, she always said —so I became her puppet, free to manipulate without a care. Painting was one of the many hobbies she forced me to pursue after she met a Venetian painter at one of her winter luncheons. Having known what influence my maternal family had accumulated over the past century, the painter willingly agreed to become my mentor. The moment he started to teach, the fun and freedom that came with art vanished, drained dry even. He always wanted perfection, the best. It was ridiculous! I was only painting a simple swan. I could still remember the calculated strokes of my paintbrush— up, down, up, down. It had been the most dreadful one hour and a half hour in the twenty-four hour cycles of my early years. 

I had been so caught up in my memories, I didn't notice that I had been stroking the brush in mid air. With each stroke of the brush, a trail of color left it, suspended in the air. White, black, orange, with a hint of lavender and light blue filled the empty space, and suddenly, a swan poofed into existence! It had only waddled for a bit before it disappeared, but nevertheless, it was still a sight to behold. Oh, you could've seen it! It was magnificent! Maybe I could even paint an entire plane with this brush. Do you think I could? 

As if the brush had a mind of its own, it swooped in a downward motion, causing a small rift in the air leading to somewhere appear for a moment before dissapating like the swan. I thought, if I could time my painting right, I could open a portal to anywhere, and I could leave this place. With no second thoughts, I snuck back to my room with the brush at hand. 

That brings us here— me writing this letter to you. I decided to write to you because aside from wanting to apologize for my scheming, you have been and always will be the first friend I had made in the manor. You are one of my best and closest friends out of everyone, and you've been looking out for me since the first day. I remember you told me these past few days that you felt me slipping away, and I told you that it was silly of you to worry about a young woman being too happy. I wish I could say that you were right for once, but I can't. I can only do so in this letter.

There's so much that all of us still haven't figured out about the manor and about each other. I don't even know how Mary found out about the brush, or why your fling still stays here if he had this brush the entire time. Was that even her? Was that brush really his to begin with? I never said it in the beginning, but I had a feeling that they were not actually part of what was going on. There's a bigger picture to this. I really do want to find it out, but I'm afraid I have to leave that part up to you. 

By the time you read this, I will be far away from this place. I will be very happy, so I'd want you to be happy too. I will be thinking of each and every one of you. 

Love,  
M

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to insert some more backstory for martha but idk if it could happen within her backstory timeline it might clash with canon but I cant do anything bout it anymore ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Also try and recognizing which sentences came from what remains of edith and from which characters' letters I took it out from. If you couldn't tell, I really really loved gregory's letter. Idk he was such a happy and bubbly baby. But anyways I hoped you like this little one shot.


End file.
